Alley Pub Consulting (3)
"You can drink at the bar, I'm telling you. Or just eat standing up!"
"We'd love to sell you something too, but there really isn't a seat. We're packed to the rafters. Come back next time and I'll throw in something on the house, yeah?"
"Aish... tsk. Fine. Hang in there."
Klaus hauled his hulking frame away at a trudge and went over to the crew that had been waiting on his news.
"No luck here either. No seats."
"Good grief. The festival hasn't even started, so why is it this crowded?"
"Right? At this rate, are we even getting a drink in today?"
Word that they'd been turned away set the others piling on, a comment apiece. But there were more than a dozen of them, and the street grew loud in an instant. Passersby flicked suspicious looks their way. Uneasy under the attention, Klaus and his crew ducked into the alley beside the pub that had just refused them.
Two weeks remained until Arcadia Academy's festival. Bringing a proper festival atmosphere to life was going to take every kind of labor there was—knocking together simple stall frames for the vendors who'd applied ahead of time, hanging banners bright and gaudy enough to catch the eye. Every hand in Belegrad with a reputation for hard graft had poured into the Academy.
They'd finished a satisfying day's work and meant, for the first time in ages, to sit down to a proper company dinner. And look at this. The pub they dropped into now and then was a solid wall of people. They couldn't get through the door. It had never been a failing shop, but the cook had changed, and word of mouth seemed to have caught fire.
"Boss. Should we just pick another day? We could drink ourselves stupid after the festival's over."
"Hey. If it isn't this week, I don't have the time. I barely talked my wife into letting me out tonight as it is."
"This bastard's built like three of his wife put together, and he still lives under her thumb."
"That's just how it is once you're married..."
Married Hans let out a heavy sigh and shut the new suggestion down. Klaus didn't particularly want to break up a group that had finally all gathered, either. Getting everyone into one place was honestly the hardest part of any outing. Walking away now without so much as a mouthful of beer would be like dumping ash over a loaf that had already come out perfect.
Better to keep looking a little longer than stand around with nowhere to go.
He was about to tell the others to recommend another shop. He drew a light breath to get the words out—and a rush of scent hit him.
"Hup?! Wh-what was that?"
"You scared me. What's with you, boss? I nearly caught an elbow."
"Sorry. But hey—you guys smell that?"
"A smell?"
How deep a breath does it take to say one line about finding another shop? He'd only drawn in a handful of air. And mixed into it came a fragrance so fierce he couldn't ignore it. At his words the others twitched their mustaches and sniffed, and then they all spoke at once.
"What is that smell?"
"Sausage. And some kind of spice, something fierce. Hoo—I'm drooling."
"The alley. It's coming from deeper in."
Wasn't a scent something you took in through your nose, not something you saw? And yet, right now, before their eyes... they could see it. A musical staff drawn like a beautiful golden melody drifted at its leisure through the air of the alley and guided them toward a single place. The latch clicked. Spellbound, they opened the door. A moment later they were grateful that every pub on the main street had been full—because that was how they had found this one.
A while ago, Eilenna had told me—or maybe it had been yesterday; I couldn't be sure—not to drink too much, and to come home early.
Sorry. I'm already a lost cause.
I apologized to her in my head. I'd already come far too far to keep that promise.
"Hic—hey. But you really can cook. You're gonna make it. You hear me?"
"Heheh. Thank you."
"Hic—hey. But you really can cook. You're gonna make it. You hear me?"
"Th-thank you?"
"Hic—hey. But you really can cook. You're gonna make it. You hear me?"
Like some grotesque talking doll stuck on a loop, the construction-worker uncle repeated the same line, then collapsed face-first without a fight. With him, every last customer in the place planted their head on the table.
Wow. I had no idea how many rounds they'd put away. Someone bought me a drink because the Curry Wurst was good. Then, seeing me knock the gifted beer back in one heroic gulp, they bought me another. We drank with gusto, and then—again—because the Curry Wurst was good, another round. And since I drank a beer every time a plate of Curry Wurst made the circuit of every table, partway through I could no longer tell whether I was cooking sausage or my own fingers.
Fortunately, my fingers survived. Right before they hit the frying pan, the pub owner had yelled and caught my wrist.
"B-boss. Water. Please, some water."
"Hold on a second."
He picked his way carefully across the filthy floor, poured a glass, and set it down with a soft thunk. I gulped it like a man who had found an oasis in the desert, and while I drank, the owner took a bite of Curry Wurst and spoke.
"As a pub owner, I don't care for worthless drunks who can't even hold their own measure... but this is force majeure."
"Keuh—pwah. Water's bringing me back to life. What is?"
"This bar snack. Curry Wurst, you called it? I never thought a food could go this well with beer. And made from that nasty sausage, no less."
"Heheh. Right? I'm telling you, this is really good..."
Listening to the wonder in his voice, I bit into a Curry Wurst still hot off the pan. The sausage's taut casing offered a faint resistance against my teeth—a crisp snap, a wet crunch. Put a little force into it anyway, tear that skin, and a feast of flavor beyond description unfolded. World Tree sap had wiped the stench clean away, leaving only meat alive with a bold, bouncing spice aroma. Chew that perfectly balanced sausage, and the sauce scattered over the top mixed itself naturally through your mouth.
To look at it, the thing was crude: sausage with a dollop of sauce dumped on top. But not a single ingredient on that plate had been used carelessly. Lean meat mixed with fat, then packed into intestine that itself carried fat—that was the sausage. The richness that couldn't help but turn greasy was caught, exquisitely, by the tartness of ketchup and vinegar. Sugar and caramelized onion blunted the sharp tip of that acidity. A taut, perfectly matched tug-of-war between sour and sweet. And then the curry powder, thrown in for the kick, snapped that rope without mercy.
Making this taste bad would take real talent.
The destructive power of curry, the kind that made you want to say that if it isn't delicious, it's guilty. The warm nuance of turmeric, cumin, and coriander meeting the savoriness of tomato ketchup—a synergy. That explosive drive could comfortably slam the thrill of flavor all the way up into the brain.
And this is the moment.
The salt and intensity unique to Curry Wurst. Wash the flavors lingering on your tongue away with beer so cold and crisp it could split your skull, and everything locks into place. Forgetting even what I'd already drunk, I chugged the lager. It stung with carbonation, and the hops made it bitter, and still dopamine burst in lavish fireworks inside my brain. Ecstatic agony, plain and simple. The scariest part was that once you'd had a beer like that, your body—craving that whole chain of pleasure all over again—tried to put another Curry Wurst in your mouth before you even noticed.
"Hey, hey! You eat that and you're going to drink again, aren't you?"
"You said it yourself, boss. How am I supposed to hold back after eating this?"
"Well. Fair enough."
"So, what do you think? My bar snack. Worth trading for the beer recipe?"
He'd promised that if it was truly delicious, he'd tell me. Judging by everything he'd said so far, the deal was as good as accepted. No need to even look. The owner let out a thoughtful hum, pondered, and then asked me a question.
"It's good. The sausage is heavy, the sauce is tart. And then that warm, biting spice... it's a damn filthy kind of delicious."
"Nothing more to say, then. So the deal—"
"Which is exactly why I can't accept it so easily."
"Pardon?"
He neatly sidestepped my confident prediction. He'd piled on every flourish of praise there was, so why?
"What's bothering you?"
"I don't think I could make something this good. Especially the ingredients in it. They look expensive at a glance."
"What. That was your worry?"
After hearing him out, I finished what was left of the water. Then I stabbed a Curry Wurst with my fork, lifted it, and said, "Boss. I'm sorry to say it, but the ingredients in this aren't all that expensive."
"What? Truly?"
"Yes. Why would I lie? Not expensive at all. Not compared to your brewing method."
I could make this dish because I stood on the shoulders of giants. That old line, meant as respect for the thinkers who came before, applies to cooking too. The history of cuisine is a history of trial and error. Someone was the first to eat a pufferfish with its belly swollen full, and someone ate the fly agaric growing in a gloomy forest. All of humanity had pioneered the horizon of flavor by, quite literally, bashing their heads against it. I was only stepping up onto that piled experience so I could see the vast land a little wider and a little farther.
Of course, knowing that knowledge and actually realizing it are different things. I wasn't trying to talk down my own effort on that score, but it was only fair to say that my starting point and the people of this world's were not the same. How could someone like me put on airs over a single recipe? The burly, bushy-bearded man in front of me was the real thing—he'd produced lager without so much as a decent reference.
My restaurant did most of its business in the evening, after all. Shouldn't a place like that at least have a simple drink, something like beer? Truth be told, I'd wanted the recipe from the first time I tasted this pub's beer. That's just the species trait of people who cook. Whatever it is, they don't want to buy it—they want to make it at home. In that sense, this recipe was worth obtaining even if it cost me extra effort.
"Of course the proper menu recipe will be adapted. I'll swap in ingredients that are as easy to get as possible, and anything that's still difficult, I'll send you all of it."
"Wh-what? For real?"
"Yes. I'll supply them on a regular basis, so don't worry."
"Then of course I accept. Just looking at tonight, this dish's potential is overflowing."
"Right? I came here worn out from being run ragged by my own customers, and then I ended up taking on a whole crowd of them again."
I yawned, long and loose. Finishing my own service and then working another kitchen—yeah, I was tired. And no small amount of alcohol was interfering with my thinking, which left my head swimming. The contract for the recipe trade... I'd better handle that tomorrow. Important decisions aren't meant to be made while drunk, or at dawn. Both were states of intoxication, a debuff that kept rational thought from working.
"Want help cleaning up?"
"No, it's fine. I can't impose on you that far."
"Then I'll head out. We can talk the details of the deal tomorrow."
"All right. Get home safe."
I hauled my drunken body along and made my slow way toward the mansion. I was worn out in more ways than one, but making the Curry Wurst hadn't burned all that much of the Mana Market. Spices and sauces like curry powder and ketchup were cost-effective to exchange in the first place, and a drop or two of World Tree sap was enough to cover a whole sausage. The onion and sugar had just come along for the ride while I was trading anyway. The only thing the owner would struggle to get in sufficient quantity was sugar, and that could be replaced with honey or fructose. Come to think of it, if I simply taught him the method, he could make the tomato ketchup himself well enough. Nothing special went into it.
So what I'd need to supply on a regular basis was only the undemanding curry powder, and World Tree sap to kill the gaminess. Even the sap, if I adapted the recipe and used it efficiently, could be cut down a great deal. Dilute it and its characteristic fresh fragrance grew faint, but the deodorizing effect didn't weaken much. Probably because that effect wasn't the substance itself, but some magic of the World Tree at work—which was why diluting it physically didn't make the effect plummet. Anyway, mix the diluted sap with spices good at killing gaminess and marinate the sausage ahead of time, and you could fill in the reduced effect with time. The cost-effectiveness got much better.
A dish even an owner whose greatest culinary feat was grilling sausage could manage. A dish with character that wouldn't offend this society's sensibilities, and that ordinary people would actually eat. And last, a dish that didn't depend entirely on my ability. Among the many foods that met every one of those conditions, Curry Wurst was what I'd settled on after thinking it through. It wasn't a menu I'd picked just because it looked tasty.
The mansion's front door creaked, and by the time I'd sorted my thoughts I was already there. I slipped inside as quietly as I could, so I wouldn't wake anyone—Eilenna especially. I was about to head straight for my room when a soft click sounded. A magic lamp flared to life in the pitch-dark living room, and light flooded the space all at once. The one who had turned it on was none other than—
"Was the drink good, Jinwoo?"
"Hurk—"
Eilenna, sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed, radiating a thoroughly displeased look.
"Ah—n-no, why haven't you gone to bed?"
"You said you'd be back soon, so I thought I'd at least say good night. But... no matter how long I waited, you didn't come."
She tapped the sofa's armrest with an elegant finger. Tap, tap. And all the while her eyes stayed on me, almost like a predator's.
"I wondered if something had happened... You caught the human princess's eye this afternoon, so I waited because I was worried. And now that I look at you..."
"I wasn't late on purpose, I was trying to get back early too—"
"Looks like you had yourself a very thorough drink, Jinwoo."
Her glare snapped sharp. Eilenna furrowed her brow hard and stared me down. That face. It was that one—the infamous glare of a furious cat. I carefully took a seat on the sofa and opened a press conference at an hour when no one should be holding one. The subject was a claim of my innocence. The reporter was Eilenna, sulking because I'd made her do nothing but worry and then gone out to play by myself at night. If I didn't smooth this over now, she'd be in a pout for days. It was already late, but going straight to sleep was off the table.
After that I broke into a nervous sweat soothing her. A full thirty minutes of explanations later, we finally, barely, fell asleep.